


A Caress Unlike Before

by its2amandimstillawake



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blaise Zabini is a Good Friend, Draco needs a hug, Eventual Smut, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Draco, POV Harry, Past Draco Malfoy/Theodore Nott - Freeform, Protective Harry, Virgin Harry, angst i think, eight year, lucius malfoy is a dick, sad draco, the noncon is not between h/d, vulnerable draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-26 17:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30109350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its2amandimstillawake/pseuds/its2amandimstillawake
Summary: Draco goes back to Hogwarts as per his probation requires and comes to face the rage of his fellow students. He figures he deserves it, the taunts and the hexes, the filthy slurs and the blows behind bathroom walls. Merlin knows he's done worse himself, so he heals the bruises and the cuts quickly and quietly, not even bothering to see Madam Pomfrey.Draco expects to be left alone by those who aren't angry at the war, and to scrape by with the best grades he can. But when the savior himself stumbles upon Draco shirtless and mid-healing in one of the less trafficked bathrooms, everything takes an unexpected turn.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 1
Kudos: 38





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing a fic please be gentle with me.

All of his things had been packed and placed by the door. His trunk, which was much smaller than his previous years due to the amount of reparations to be made, his satchel containing nothing but a few books, and Leopold, his eagle owl. In previous years he would have had another trunk stuffed full with candy and expensive robes, little trinkets and broom accessories. He didn't even have a broom anymore. And Leopold was one of two remaining eagle owls of the original fifteen. There were no French chocolates, or anything that could pass as extraneous. As Draco stood waiting for his mother to see him off, he couldn't help but wonder if this is what it was like for the witches and wizards who weren't as well off as he was. Or at least as he used to be, he reminded himself.

He was shaken from his thoughts by his mother's gentle pattering feet coming down the main staircase. She was wearing a simple black robe that was a bit big for her frame, her hair (now almost completely white) was tied back in a bun that was most unfitting for a woman of her stature. The fallout after the trials had accosted his mother many luxuries, like that of her jewelry or her flowery perfumes. When she had to sell her silken hand-woven robes, she seemed to let go of how she presented herself. Now she only wore robes that were too big and her hair in a messy uncouth bun, Draco could barely stand to look at her and not feel the pang of regret and sympathy for her.

He looked away from her when she reached the last step. She didn't seem to mind however and came to stand directly in front of Draco, wiping off invisible dust from his shoulders and chest and straightening his hair. He closed his eyes and let himself get lost in the soft touch of his mother's fingertips skimming his robes. She barely touched him anymore, as if she were to press too hard he would shatter into millions of pieces. Eventually she stepped back and cleared her throat, he opened his eyes and looked down at her, his height now almost towering.

"Be strong Draco, hold your head up high. We will make it past this." Her voice was wispy and quiet, that too had changed since the war. His mother was no longer the strong-standing woman he had come to know; and it was this fact alone that incurred a prickling at the back of his eyes. He wanted to reach out and hug her, to fall into her embrace and never leave. But he wouldn't, and she wouldn't reach out to him either.

"Always mother," He rasped out. Draco straightened, cleared his throat, then set about shrinking his trunk so that he could apparate. He stepped outside, releasing Leopold to find his own way to Hogwarts. With one final glance at his mother, to which she gave a terse wave, he apparated to an alley not too far from King's Cross Station. He could hear the people passing by, unaware that he was hidden in the shadows. He felt the sudden compulsion to run, to flee from the country and go as far as he possibly could from here. He wanted to run away and never see the faces of his fellow students ever again, he didn't want to face the wizarding world and all it's cruelty towards him and his mother. But the thought was fleeting and he was left with an overwhelming sense of dread and trepidation. Taking one last fortifying breath he started to make his way to Platform 9 3/4. 

In the past he would have gone to the platform with his mother and father, his mother would have given him sugar quills and his father a few wise words before the train would depart. But that time was over, and as he came closer to the entrance hidden from muggles he got more and more scowls directed his way. Keeping his mother's words in mind he didn't shrivel under the piercing gaze of onlookers and instead held his head high. 

Once he stepped foot on the platform his was bombarded with Nostalgia. It looked just the same as it always had, bursting with nervous first years, louder third years, the faint humming of magic that brushed lovingly against his skin. Draco smiled and for the first time in a very long time, contentment seeped deep in his bones. However this was short lived as those in his direct vicinity saw who he was and broke out into conspiratorial whispers. Doused in the cold harsh water of reality, he plastered a slight scowl on his face and pretended not to hear the murmurs of 'death eater scum' or 'you would think he wouldn't come back' or 'he doesn't belong here'. He told himself that they were wrong, they were all wrong, but had a hard time convincing himself. 

Draco made his way through the crowd trying to draw the least amount of attention to himself as possible. His mere presence was turning heads, and some of the braver few had no qualms about telling him what he was worth to his face. With a measured ease, and an impassive mask firmly in place, he strode on, determined to just make it to the back of the train. There was a sudden shouting from behind him, and alarmed he whirled around to perceive the threat. Upon further examination it was not the sound of resentment but of downright appreciation, and at the center of it was the Golden Trio themselves. Granger and the Weasel were acting as bodyguards around Potter, and Draco couldn't help the scowl that crept onto his face. Making a decisive turn away from the Trio, and more importantly Potter, he continued down the platform at a slightly faster pace.

Draco was almost to a train car near the back when he stumbled into someone else. He barely had time to react before the boy shoved him, sneered a "Watch where you're going filth!" and spat in his face. Closing his eyes briefly, he wiped the mucus from his nose and cheek, trying not to gag at the slimy texture. There was laughter bubbling around him, and he started to tense. He looked to the boy who shoved him, now wearing a smug grin, and hastened to get up. His heart was pounding and he could feel him palms sweating. The laughter continued, and as Draco looked around to find somewhere to escape, anywhere, his eyes met Potters. They were burning with something he couldn't place, and Draco quickly looked away before he could decide what it meant. 

Before he knew it, someone had grabbed a firm hand onto his bicep and was tugging him toward the train. For a moment Draco thought someone was dragging him off to beat him, but when he looked he saw Blaise. He relaxed instantly and let Blaise half-tug half-guide him onto the car and to a nearly empty compartment. Blaise threw open the door, startling the two second years and growled and "out". They scrambled as fast as they could, and soon it was just him and Blaise. 

Blaise dropped his arm and threw himself in the seats with a loud huff. "Don't thank me or anything, it's not like you needed my help or support." Draco smiled a small smile, setting his satchel and himself opposite of his friend. 

"Thank you for so delicately manhandling me onto the train and scaring a couple of girls for my sake. Really, what would I do without you?" He tried to go for snotty and conniving, but he knew his voice sounded flat to his own ears. The pitying look Blaise gave him was all the confirmation he needed. Draco looked away, he had seen enough of looks like that from his mother, the last person he wanted to see it from was one of his best friends. The silence that fell between them was heavy and Draco tried not to feel suffocated with it. He tried to take a few well-disguised breaths and stare out the window, but was met with the scowling faces of dozens of witches and wizards. 

Draco felt something flare in him, who were they to judge him? Who were they to scowl and sneer and spit at him when they have no idea of the things he's done? Of the things he did for his family? How was he any different than the countless others that fought for safety in their own home? Any different than those who had suffered at the hands of others? Abruptly he stood, and drew the curtains as harsh as he could manage. Only when he had drawn the blinds and sat back into his seat did his anger waver. 

Of course he was different than them. How could he not be? He was on the wrong side of the war and made all the wrong choices first out of pride, then out of fear. He wasn't brave or strong, and he didn't have the grit to stand up for what he believed in. He kept his head down and did what he was told. He wasn't like them. He wasn't good.

The train whistled and jostled to a start, Draco could hear the mothers and fathers crying outside his compartment. He could almost taste the joy and the wonder that was rife in the air. It made him sick that so many could be happy when his mother had to sacrifice and suffer to survive. Soon the train left the platform, and Draco was able to open the blinds. The silence continued between them, tension sitting heavy in the some-what cramped compartment. When the buzzing life of the city began to transition into the hills of the country, Blaise cleared his throat. 

Draco looked at him, taking stock of Blaise's fidgeting fingers. He never used to fidget before the war, always cool and composed. His father used to chastise him when the Zabini's stayed at the manor. He could hear him now - 'Sit still with your hands folded in your lap. Don't make a noise and speak only when you are spoken to. Just like the Zabini boy, you must learn to behave yourself'. But war tends to change things, to change people. No one he knows now hasn't come away with something from the war. Now Blaise's fingers twitched and drummed against the back of right hand, his eyes kept glancing from Draco to his hands. He waited for Blaise to speak up, not wanting to be the first to start what was looking to be a painful conversation. He cleared his throat again, this time his eyes stayed on Draco.

"How..." he sighed and pushed through, "How are you? How have you... been?" At this Draco scoffed.

"What, are we hufflepuffs now? I wasn't aware that were getting new houses this year along with a new dorm." He didn't even try to sound anything other than monotonous. Draco wasn't looking at Blaise anymore, he couldn't. He could hear Blaise answer with his own scoff.

"Come on Draco, you know what I mean. I just..." He sighed again, this time he sounded tired. "I just want to know if you're okay." Blaise's tone proved to be too much for his resistance, so he turned to look at Blaise and regretted it immediately. His face was filled with such an understanding and plea that only those who share a secret could give. Draco closed his eyes. 

"I can't Blaise, not right now. I just- I- it's too much. Please." Draco whispered the last word, he felt like he was broken in it's wake. Looking back to the countryside he could hear Blaise sigh again, and settle back into his seat. The silence between them was heavier than before and he couldn't help but think it was his fault. Suddenly he was faced with the desire to fall into his mother's embrace like he had when he was a child. He wanted to close his eyes and bury his face into her hair, breathing in the soft smell of flowers and feeling in his core that he was home. 

But his mother no longer smelled like flowers, and he had not been a child for a very long time.


	2. I.

Dinner, as always, was a grand affair. The tables were filled with mouth watering foods, and the excited chattering of first years could be heard all through the Great Hall. The only thing that was different was that Harry, and all the rest of the eighth years, had to sit at their own table which headed the main four. It wouldn't have been so bad except for it put Harry on display in front of the entire school. Even as he sat with his back turned from them all, the back of his neck prickled with the knowledge that he was being watched. The whole dinner would have been nerve-wracking if it hadn't of been for Ron and Hermione on either side of him. They anchored him to the Hall and it allowed him to relax, just a little, in their presence.

The speech McGonagall had given was long and full of tearful remembrances and brief recitation of the rules. Harry had heard enough of sorrowful speeches speaking of the dead during the summer when he visited his own handful of funerals, so he couldn't bring himself to listen to her. He felt guilty enough, of having so many fight for him and so many die. Being here, in the Great Hall, was almost too much. If he closed his eyes and blocked out the conversations and savory smell of roast beef and potatoes, he could still picture the endless rows of bodies and the heavy stench of curses in the air.

Without meaning to, he lost his appetite completely, pushing the plate away from him and setting his arms on the table. Ron was currently helping himself to a third serving of mashed potatoes and laughing loudly at something Seamus had said, paying Harry no mind at all. Hermione however, was a different story.

"Have you tried the stuffing? It's quite excellent this year." Harry smiled at Hermione's play to get to him eat. He chose not to look at her, instead pretending to study the intricate (but not really) weave of his robes.

"Not too hungry actually." He replied. Harry could picture the pinched face Hermione made at that, something that looked along the lines of 'I know you're lying but I won't tell you that yet'.

"But you hardly had anything at the Burrow this morning, or on the train." She said tight-lipped, Harry had the decency to look shy. He told himself that it wasn't exactly his fault, this morning he was bombarded with horde of Weasley's each trying to get their own alone time with him. By the time he was an hour away from flooing to the train station, he had just enough time to frantically pack and give his goodbyes before going. And the train had been filled with a tension unlike any other after he was briefly left alone with Ginny, who showed absolutely no interest in him. The conversation they made was strained and awkward, and left Harry feeling like he missed something important. How could anyone be expected to eat when the awkwardness was choking him to the brink of death?

So no, it wasn't his fault that he wasn't able to eat this morning. Or this afternoon. But he couldn't tell Hermione this, so he just shrugged instead. Beside him, he could hear her sigh, followed by the comforting weight of her hand on his thigh. He chanced a look at her and saw her face filled with mother-like worry. Suddenly he was reminded of Molly and the way she would look at him in that knowing way that told you things would be okay.

"It's just that, well, I'm worried for you. So is Ron." This earned a swiveled head from Ron, who muttered a "Wot?" around a mouthful of food. Hermione gave him a trademark scowl before continuing:

"You're hardly eating anymore and you seem distant as ever." Harry wondered why Hermione decided to bring this up now, in the Great Hall surrounded by raucous eighth years. He felt a flash of irritation at the timing, and from the near-helpless and pleading look Hermione shot Ron, it seemed that Hermione noticed it. Ron chewed hastily before trying his hand at the whole confrontation.

"She's right y'know. If it weren't for all those broom rides this summer you'd be as skinny as you were in first year. And... you don't really talk to us anymore mate." Ron was rubbing his neck sheepishly, anything left on his plate forgotten. Harry's jaw dropped as he looked rapidly between his friends.

"Wha- I- I talk to you!" And he did. He always told them about his broom rides when he was gone for hours at a time, and he always had something to say during dinner time at the Burrow. Though he was always asked about his disappearance, and he his opinion always seemed like it had to be drawn out of him at dinner. Maybe he didn't talk to them anymore, and the thought alone deflated him a bit.

"Not like you used to, not since before... well..." Hermione didn't have to finish, he knew what she was talking about. Most people fretted over the word 'war' like Voldemort these days, almost as if the acknowledgment of such a time would bring it back to fruition. Harry couldn't complain however, in most cases he was the same.

"The point is we miss you mate. I want to talk about Quidditch and girls, fuck around a bit now that we can." Ron was smiling at him, and Harry couldn't help but return it, even if it was a bit pathetic.

"Yeah, yeah alright. I'll um, I'll get better okay? I'll try harder." Harry was smiled his pathetic half-smile at his friends. Ron beamed and slapped him on the back while Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him an awkward hug that he felt against side.

"We just want you to be okay." She whispered into his unruly hair. Harry tried to push down the lump in his throat and hugged her back.

"I'm okay." He whispered back.

"Oi! What are you lot on about? You look like someone just pissed in your cereal!” Seamus shouted at them all, even though he was just across the table. Harry snapped back to reality and the laughter and jubilation that surrounded filled the hall became glaringly loud again.

“So we must look like you then, yeah?” Ron quipped. Seamus wrinkled his face as Dean burst into laughter next to him. Harry joined in too, and he swore he could hear a giggle from Hermione. 

Just like that Harry felt a little lighter. He was surrounded by his friends, laughing at stupid jokes, and eating good food. He was even back at Hogwarts, the first home he had ever known. Harry became filled with relief, and a weight that he hadn’t been aware of until just now was lifted from his chest. Things would be okay.

Dinner drew to an end, and Harry and the rest of the eighth years found themselves being led through the castle by McGonagall. There weren’t many of them, twenty five at most, but there were definitive splits of houses in their little group. The Gryffindors were in the middle of the crowd, Neville and Hermione currently in a heated conversation about the curriculum for potions this year while Dean was playfully jostling Ron. There were a few Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws that Harry briefly recalled mumbling quietly amongst themselves in the front. And the Slytherins in the back. Walking silently. 

Only three of them returned. Blaise Zabini, who was looking a little too aloof to be really convincing, Pansy Parkinson, who rushed in halfway through dinner soaking wet like she had walked to Hogwarts, and Malfoy. Malfoy, who, in Harry’s opinion didn’t look much changed at all. He still strutted as if he owned the halls (if not more subdued), his head was held high like the indignant prat he was (though it didn’t carry the haughty touch that it had in earlier years), and his expression was still... actually it was carefully blank.

As Harry snuck another glance at Malfoy, he realized that quite a lot had changed. Each movement he made was measured, gone was the arrogance and sense of superiority. Left in its place was... well Harry couldn’t quite place. 

“Harry? Are you alright?” Hermione asked, her face returning to that motherly worry. Harry smiled, a real smile this time.

“Yeah, fine. Just a bit tired s’all.” Right about then the group came to an abrupt stop. They stood before an elaborate tapestry depicting the giant squid. Every once in a while it would float away in a swirl of black ink only to return seconds later  
“This is the entrance to your dormitory. To get in you simply say ‘renaissance’.”She turned and repeated the phrase to the squid, who quickly swam away. A moment later there was a whoosh, and the tapestry rolled up from the bottom to settle at the top, revealing a short corridor with a door at the end. Before any of the students could walk in however, McGonagall blocked their path.

“As I have already given my speech I shall keep this short,” she fixed them with a stare that spoke of no funny business. “I am aware that you are of age to drink, that does not however, mean that I will permit any alcohol or otherwise intoxicants on the school grounds. As you are of age I expect each and every one of you to act responsibly, keeping in mind that you set an example for the younger students on the grounds. I will not tolerate fighting of any sort. Am I understood?” She set her stare at Harry, who blushed and shuffled awkwardly, then shifted her gaze to what Harry could only assume was Malfoy. 

There was a general air of assent and agreement, so without another word (but one more pointed glance at both Malfoy and Harry), she walked down the hall and out of sight. The silence she left behind was thick, and soon became suffocating when all eyes turned to Harry. They were waiting for him to lead them into the dorm, he knew, but he just couldn’t. 

Hermione (the angel that she was), straightened and strode forward with a confidence Harry couldn’t outwardly muster. The rest of the group followed, and soon Harry found himself in the middle of the eighth year common room. It had elements of his own common room, with big comfortable couches and drapes that stretched from floor to ceiling. But here, everything was dressed in a royal purple. The cushions, the drapes, the wayward blankets; even the fire warming the hearth seemed to have a purple tinge to it. 

Harry felt a bit disoriented, the weight on his chest returning slightly at the sight of the unfamiliar decoration. But when Ron smirked at him, and Hermione set a comforting hand on his shoulder, the weight vanished as fast as it appeared. Most of the eighth years headed off to their dormitory. The girls up a staircase to the right and the boys to left. Harry couldn’t help but notice the speed of which the Slytherins made their way to their dorms, Malfoy’s blond head disappearing behind the spiral of stairs. 

Harry started to make his own way up when Seamus called him over to the seating in front of the fireplace. Ron had already taken his place on a large couch, and he was helpless not to follow.

As the night trudged on, Harry wished he had gone to bed like Hermione had. The boys from his old dorm were joking around, talking about girls and the the new curriculum. It was nice to a sense of familiarity (he was reminded of those nights in Gryffindor when they would stay up late testing new Weasley products), but he wasn’t exactly sleeping well; he could already feel the regret of staying up late.

“And what about you and Ginny? You still boyfriend-girlfriend?” Seamus asked, fluttering his eyes dramatically. Startled by hastily being pulled into the conversation, he answered quite lamely.

“Er... fine. She’s... a good kisser I guess.” Kissing seemed like the safe way to go, because he didn’t have much else to say about her. Harry furrowed his brow at that, in retrospect, maybe he should have more to say about his girlfriend than her. kissing skills. 

“Ugh, mate, I don’t want to hear about you macking my sister, alright?” Ron made a putrid face.

“Harry’s not wrong. From what I remember, Ginny’s got a wicked tongue.” Dean said, aiming a wink directly at Ron. Ron threw a pillow at his head while Neville giggled behind his hand. 

Conversation moved on, and Harry fished for an excuse to go to bed. But before he had the chance, Neville let out a long yawn and announced his departure. Everyone else shuffled about to follow suite, and Harry couldn’t be more grateful.

At the top of the stairs, the hall split into two directions - each leading to their own respective dorms. Harry veered right with Seamus, while Dean, Ron, and Neville went left. Harry waved to them and continued down his own short hall. 

Upon entry Harry made his way to one of the two unoccupied beds and began to undress. He was practically asleep already, so he barely noticed when Malfoy came in from the bathroom and ran into Seamus. 

He barely noticed, but noticed all the same. Seamus sneered and gave him a shove.

“Watch it, Malfoy.” Seamus went through to the bathroom, and Harry was left awkwardly standing with his shirt in one hand and his eyes trailing Malfoy. At first he stood, startled but turned a glare on Harry before stomping off to his own bed. Pulling the curtains around him sharply, Harry was left feeling wrong footed. Why that was, he had no idea.

Laying in bed that night, with the curtains shielding him from the world, Harry didn’t think of anything at all. Not of Ginny or Hermione’s worried face; and certainly not of Malfoy in blue night shirts that weren’t silk at all, but cotton instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to update every few weeks but no promises.


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